I thought the worst thing my mother-in-law ever did was sneak a turkey leg into her purse on Thanksgiving. This year, she walked into my house in stilettos, walked out with my entire Thanksgiving dinner, and somehow still managed to blame me for what happened next.
I am the kind of person who waits for Thanksgiving like kids wait for Christmas.
Every year, the Friday before Thanksgiving, I pull out my grandmother’s recipe cards.
They’re yellowed and bent and stained with grease, and her handwriting leans a little to the right. Just seeing them makes my chest feel warm.
I buy real butter. None of the cheap stuff.
I roast garlic for my mashed potatoes until the whole house smells like an Italian restaurant.
I brine the turkey for twenty-four hours like I’m trying to impress the Food Network judges. I bake pies the night before so they set just right.
Thanksgiving is my joy. My connection to my grandma.
My comfort.
My MIL, Elaine?
She loves designer heels. Salon blowouts. Filters.
Whatever new boyfriend she’s dating for the season. She never cooked a full meal in her life unless you count microwaving Lean Cuisines.
For the last few years, she’s had this cute little habit of “dropping by” before dinner and leaving with my food.
The first time, she took a tray of stuffing.
“Sweetheart, you made so much,” she’d said, already wrapping it in foil. “You won’t even miss it.”
The next year, it was a whole pumpkin pie.
“The girls at book club will just die over this,” she’d chirped, already halfway to the door.
“One little turkey leg,” she’d said.
“You won’t even notice.”
Eric, my husband, would get mad for about five minutes, then say, “It’s just food, babe, let it go. She’s just like that.”
So I let it go. But I never forgot. Continue reading…
